31 Days Challenge: Autor
by HaleySings
Summary: Not a very exciting title, I know. A collection of what will be 31 short stories based on Autor, using themes from the 31 Days Challenge on LiveJournal. Because Autor needs more love.
1. Fic 1: The Blank Page

A/N: This 'story' is actually a collection of (what will be, if I finish it) 31 stories centered around Autor/Aotoa from Princess Tutu. I'm doing this as part of the 31Days challenge on Livejournal (31days. in which every day we're assigned a certain theme to write on. HOPEFULLY I'll be able to do them all about Autor (my third (?) favorite character, and sadly underappreciated), although if I start slowing down on inspiration for him, I might make it into a general Princess Tutu challenge.

Before every 'chapter' (story), I'll leave the format from the community to introduce it. Why? Because I'm lazy, and it's easy to start it off that way. Plus, it includes the theme--which might help with understanding where I'm going with a piece.

Oh, and a quick disclaimer: I don't own Princess Tutu, nor am I affliated with it in any way. I'm just a crazy Autor fangirl. (Run for your lives!)

Okay, enough yapping from me. I hope you enjoy this, everyone!

**  
Title:** The Blank Page  
**Day/Theme:** March 23. I'd want you beautiful and pale, the way I've dreamed you were  
**Series:** Princess Tutu  
**Character/Pairing:** Autor  
**Rating:** G

Autor sat down at his desk, smoothing out the paper in front of him. The desk was, of course, a perfect replica of Drosselmeyer's, the exact type of wood measured down to the exact millimeter. He had even left in the flaw in the upper-left leg of the desk that caused it to slightly wobble as he pressed down on it.  
And the paper, of course, was made from ten-year-old reeds. It had taken him a lot of searching to find a paper-maker in the town that could tell him how old the reeds were, but it didn't matter now that he had found it. The paper was smooth and clean, untouched.

This was the moment he had been dreaming of since he was a child.

He nervously adjusted his frog-shaped inkwell so that it was just the right distance from the paper. He couldn't be too careful. He had worked too hard, researched too long, to mess up this moment now. He had heard the tree sigh, he knew he had. He only needed a little more evidence to prove his ancestry. He _knew_ he could do this.

He carefully took off the lid of the ink well, dipped his duck-feather quill into it, and…stared at the blank page before him.

Just a few moments before, he had so many words he had wanted to write. He thought they would come tumbling out of him, and he would be unable to stop himself from writing until it was done. He would forgo sleep and food for days if he had to, just to finish the story.  
But now, he stared at the blank page in front of him, and it seemed as though it dared him to put his pathetic words onto the page. _Go ahead,_ it said, _destroy this perfectly white surface with your attempt at a story._

He swallowed and took his quill out of the inkwell, slowly reaching out with his hand to bring it closer to the page. His hand hovered over it, the ink slowly dripping to the tip of the pen.  
He jerked his hand back right before a drop of ink fell on the paper, causing the ink to land on his coat sleeve instead. The paper lay on the desk as blank as it had always been.

With a frown, he put the quill back in the ink well and got up from the desk.  
"Perhaps I need to drink some tea first."


	2. Fic 2: Marching On

**Title: **Marching On**  
Day/Theme: **March 24. forever, which is maybe the most horrifying word I ever heard of**  
Series: **Princess Tutu**  
Character/Pairing: **Autor**  
Rating: **G

There were only two people that went to the man's funeral. One, a violet-haired boy with glasses, dressed in black. The other was the penguin music teacher from the local Academy – who was probably there more out of pity for his student, than love of the boy's father. Herr Uhrmacher had been a man that was easy to miss – quiet, plain-looking, and overly interested in books and research. Those that did somehow notice the man often wished they hadn't – he was eccentric, to say the least. None of the townspeople would ever say they were glad to see him gone, but very few would mourn. They had enough of the man's ravings about stories and puppets.

The man's son had not quite yet reached the level of his father, but the townspeople expected him to sooner or later. He already spent much of his free time in the library, so much so that the only students that knew the boy very well were those that worked there. Oddly enough, for a boy that seemed to be so studious, his grades were merely average.

Between the strange qualities of the man, and the strange qualities of his son, Autor, people were sure to talk. So Autor himself wasn't at all surprised that as he ascended the staircase in the dorms after the funeral that he could hear the other students whispering amongst themselves. He got a few pitying looks from the nicer students, but for the most part they avoided his gaze and quickly walked away when he approached. That didn't particularly bother Autor – he didn't want to talk to them, either.

Silently, he went into his room and packed away what little he had taken with him to the school. His uniforms, a plain assortment of other clothing, carefully organized music scores, several books, and one earring that he had found stuck in between two floorboards as a child that he had never had the heart to get rid of. A few more odds and ends, and he had completely cleared the room of any trace that he had ever been there. He walked out the room and back down the stairs, carrying his bags and once again ignoring the whispers.

He didn't care if he never came back, he decided. He wouldn't miss the dorms, or anyone here, nor would they miss him. It was only a short walk from the school to his home, anyway. He had never needed to live in a dorm.

As soon as he reached his home, he unpacked his things and looked around. The house felt the same way that it had always felt. "Empty" was one word that came to mind. His father had never been concerned by decorations or knick-knacks. "Sterile" was another word, although the fact that it still felt this way surprised Autor. Had his father been so concerned with cleanliness, even in his illness? Or had someone cleaned the house after his death?

He walked through the few small rooms of the house, telling himself that he was checking to make sure everything was in order. In reality, it was so he could hear his own footsteps – partially to have assurance that this was real and not a dream, and partially so that he could cover up the sound of the large grandfather clock that had been ticking away since he had walked through the door. His first goal was accomplished – this was no dream.  
However, his footsteps only proved to make the ticking of the clock seem louder – every step he took seemed to be in time with it.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.

His father had been meticulous with making sure that clock was always perfectly on time. He had always been a very timely man. He got up at the same time every morning, had his meals precisely on the same hour every day, and went to bed at the same time every night. Autor, himself, had lived on schedule for as long as he could remember. He had never been late to class, ever.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.

Autor decided that his footsteps were only making things worse, and sat down in a plain wood chair at the kitchen table. He carefully adjusted the candle holder until it was exactly at the center of the table.  
The house must have been cleaned after his father's death. He would have never forgotten to do that himself.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.

He would have come, if someone had written to him, or even if someone had come to get him. How was he supposed to have known what was happening? The Academy was often very caught-up in its own little world, so he might as well have been in a different town. Oh, they still heard idle town gossip every now and then, but Herr Uhrmacher had always been someone that was easy to miss, so if he hadn't been noticed for a few days…  
Why hadn't the doctor written him, or sent someone to get him, or _something_? If he had known the day he left for school would be the last day he would see his father…

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.

Time marched on, even with his father gone, and it would continue marching on, even after he was gone. Herr Uhrmacher was an easy man to miss, but nobody would miss him. This caused an uneasy thought to appear in Autor's mind: _If nobody missed him, will anyone miss me?_

The clock rang the hour. It was dinner time. He was behind; he hadn't had anything to eat.

"He's not here to remind me, you see," he said apologetically to the clock as it finished its chime. "I'm sure I'll get used to it."

He frowned, lowering his head and letting his eyes follow along the grain of the table. "I don't particularly feel like eating, anyway."


	3. Fic 3: The World's Friendly Lesson

**A/N: **Yeah, I missed a few days. ; I was too busy to work on my fic one day, and on the next the theme didn't fit Autor at all, so I skipped it. But I'm back with a new ficlet--and, luckily, one that is much less angsty! Enjoy!

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**Title:** The World's Friendly Lesson in Humility  
**Day/Theme:** March 27. sometimes when the wrappings fall, there's nothing underneath at all  
**Series: **Princess Tutu  
**Character/Pairing:** Autor  
**Rating:** G

Autor smiled smugly to himself as he finished getting ready in the morning. His ascot was neatly tied around his neck, his jacket pulled perfectly straight. As for his hair, there wasn't a strand out of place. He pushed his glasses up his nose as he took one last look at himself in the mirror, and then with a satisfied 'heh' he grabbed his book bag and marched out of his house and down the street to the school – making sure to keep perfect posture, of course.

As he joined the throng of students heading to their respective classes, he knew he stood out of the crowd because it was obvious that he had everything together. Most of the students had at least something that kept them from perfection. A female art student wandered past him, slouching and covering a small yawn. Autor could see one of the ballet students wandering around the campus– a brunette boy that had a tendency to be a bit slack-jawed. He stared up at the clock tower with a look that was either confusion or simple stupidity, rubbing at the back of his head. His shirt was also buttoned crooked, Autor noticed.

Over to his left, he saw (with some annoyance) that three of the ballet students were wandering in his direction.  
"Oh hurry Duck, hurry!" The blonde one of the girls said, jerking her red-headed friend towards the school. "If you're late, you'll be put on probation again, or worse, you'll be forced to MARRY Mr. Cat!"  
Duck stumbled in the blonde's grasp, squawking out a retort.

He smirked, shaking his head. Autor had always thought to himself that the name fit the girl rather well – she was so clumsy, she might as well have webbed feet. Why, just the other day—

TRIP. TUMBLE. OOF!

Sometimes, when you've got your nose stuck up into the air, it can be hard to see where you're going. Particularly when you're traveling down a slightly steep hill, and there's a crack in the pathway.

Autor rubbed his head, dazed for a moment. He could hear a few of the students snickering. He quickly stood up, readjusting his glasses and doing his best to collect his dignity. As well as his books, which had flown out of his book bag during his tumble down the hill. He did his best to ignore the laughter, as well as to look as though he didn't care about the grass stain on his crisp white uniform pants.

His books carefully returned into his book bag, he continued on towards his class…but this time, with a much less smug look on his face.


	4. Fic 4: Volumes Upon Volumes

**Title:** Volumes Upon Volumes  
**Day/Theme:** March 29. take my blood and my body for your love  
**Series:** Princess Tutu  
**Character/Pairing:** One-sided Autor/Rue  
**Rating:** PG

"_It seems I've fallen in love with you."_

"_With me?_

"_Yes."_

"…_Enough to sacrifice your life?"_

"_Yes, if it is for your sake."_

_She laughed._

Autor stumbled out of the building she had taken him into, his mind swirling with questions. What had he done wrong? He had done everything she had asked him to, answered every question without hesitating or stumbling over his words. In fact, he had surprised himself with how clearly he was able to speak, although his heart had been racing and his mind had been cluttered with disconnected observations about her.

(Her hair smelled like cinnamon, probably a shampoo. He felt silly for noticing that, but he did. Her expression was confident, her eyes filled with some sort of purpose, but the way she walked was hesitant. Why?)

It was all foolish, really. He couldn't explain _why _he felt the way he did when she looked at him. He couldn't explain how it had happened. Maybe he really was just being controlled by the story.  
But he didn't _feel _like he was being controlled. What he felt wasn't a lie. It didn't feel like a puppeteer tugging on a string. He had felt controlled often in his life, and the feeling had always made him uneasy. But that familiar feeling of being pulled along by the story wasn't there. Maybe it's something the story had decided for him, but if it was, he had gladly gone along with it.

(Was he _that_ lonely?)

He gritted his teeth at the thought. The idea was absurd. He didn't really need any companionship. All he had throughout his life were books. And that was enough. Books never made people feel the way he was feeling now.

(But the books he had read had never kept him from noticing that there was nobody to ever bother him as he read them.)

He saw a glint of light out of the corner of his eye and turned towards it. Sitting on a rock nearby a lantern, he could see a figure bent over in deep thought. So, he had gone to Drosselmeyer's grave to write? But he still couldn't write, could he?

At least he could comfort himself in knowing that he wasn't nearly as pathetic as Fakir.

(That was a lie, and he knew it. Even if he wanted to write down the swirling emotions he was feeling at the moment, he would have never been able to.)

He forced a smirk on his face, straightened up, and pushed his glasses up his nose. He'd forget about her.

(_I don't want to! _the voice in his head screamed, but he pushed it aside.)

After all, he still had to help Drosselmeyer's pathetic descendant write his stupid little story.

(_Damn him, what I wouldn't give to be in his position. I'd write a story only for her, about a man that would take out his own heart for the love of a Princess. Maybe then she wouldn't laugh. _)

"_And to think, at this moment I have volumes upon volumes that I want to write. It's ironic."_

* * *

**A/N:** Believe it or not, I turned this one in three minutes before the fic was due in the challenge. Yes, three minutes. I'm a horrible procrastinator.

As soon as I saw the theme for this day, I KNEW I had to do a Autor/Rue ficlet to it. This scene has always perplexed me -- I honestly have no idea whether he was being controlled by the story or not, but I believe him when he says 'this emotion isn't fake'.

The ending of the story is one I came up with on the fly to help it bridge the two episodes...and when I first wrote it, I thought tying it in with Autor's (dub-version) line was really rather silly...I didn't actually think he was really talking about Rue at all. After writing this, however, I watched the scene, and he DOES blush slightly as he says that...so maybe he really was talking about Rue. Who knows?

Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this one, as rushed as it was! Thank you to the reviewers I've had so far, I really appreciate your input!


	5. Fic 5: Inspiration

**Title:** Inspiration  
**Day/Theme:** March 31. it's the last midnight, it's the last wish  
**Series:** Princess Tutu  
**Character/Pairing:** Autor, Fakir/Duck (Ahiru)  
**Rating:** G

Autor slowly walked over to the bench at the back of the room and dropped down onto it. Fakir was once again seated at his desk, writing her story. Autor could see a variety of emotions drift onto Fakir's face as he wrote – fear, pain, sorrow, but also love and hope.  
_He really does care about her,_ Autor thought to himself, smiling faintly. If he thought about it, it was strange, feeling attachment like that to a duck. But, when you live in a town controlled by stories, the idea that she wasn't just a duck didn't seem so strange.

Then, Fakir called her name, and tossing his pen aside, ran through the rubble that used to be the door to the room and out into the square. So this was it, then? The story had ended? Autor supposed to himself that he should get up off the bench at take a look outside, but for the moment, he simply wanted to rest. He had never imagined a week ago (had it only been that long?) when the grumpy descendant of Drosselmeyer walked into the music room and confronted him that this was how the story would end. Oh, he had planned to help Fakir from the beginning, but the version of helping he had seen in his mind's eye involved something more along the lines of helping to hone Fakir's mind and telling him what was the right ink to use. He certainly didn't imagine throwing himself at a man carrying a large axe and tackling him through the remains of his door.

The door. His poor, poor door. He looked mournfully at the pieces of wood scatted around the room. He supposed he was the one that was going to be responsible for fixing it.  
And then there was the problem of the book man. He couldn't just leave him there, or it'd be rather awkward when the book man finally woke up. But where could he take him? To a doctor, perhaps…

Well, he'd worry about that later. The man would be out cold for a few hours more, at the very least. Autor hadn't realized until he sat down just how tired he was, and had been for days. Fakir probably had it worse (Autor had allowed himself to sleep a few hours during Fakir's training), but it wasn't as though he could sleep very well with all the excitement going on, anyway. His defense against the book man had used up more energy than he thought, as well. He really ought to go outside and check on Fakir and Duck, but…it wouldn't be so bad to lie here for just a little bit, would it?

Autor slumped on the bench, eyes half-open. He noticed Fakir's discarded quill on the desk across from him. Or, rather, a white blur he knew was Fakir's quill—his glasses were still somewhere among the debris scattered on the floor.  
Pushing aside the thought of the debris once again, Autor's mind wandered to the image of Fakir bent over the story, tears streaming down his face, saying softly to himself the words that were flowing out of his pen and onto the paper. It was funny, Autor thought to himself. He had never thought of Fakir as the crying type. Nor had he ever even considered the possibility that to write you needed to find inspiration in something…or _someone_.

And he certainly wouldn't have picked a duck as an inspiration if he had. It was strange. Well, the entire town was strange. This entire situation was strange. Maybe life in general was just strange, for all he knew.

He closed his eyes. "It must be nice," he muttered softly, "to have someone that inspires you like that. Even if she is just a duck."

"I wish I had someone like that."

The clock struck midnight.


	6. Fic 6: Picnic

A/N: Something tells me this month is going to be difficult with Autor fics...the over all theme is 'a touch of spring.'

...I wonder how many different excuses I can come up with to get Mr. Homebody actually outside the house before I run out of ideas. XD;;; Oh well. I'm actually not thrilled with this ficlet as much as I am with some of the other ones...but it's a nice little glimpse into Autor's childhood, anyway. I hope everyone enjoys it. **  
**

* * *

**Title:** Picnic  
**Day/Theme:** April 2: In the sunlight  
**Series:** Princess Tutu  
**Character/Pairing:** Autor  
**Rating:** G

One of the happiest memories Autor had was of a picnic. The sun was shining brightly that day, but there was a breeze that kept the day from being too hot. It had blown through his violet-blue hair, moving the strands of it out of their carefully-styled look and making his hair a giant mess, but at that age he was too young to care.

He must have been…six? No more than seven years old, for sure. He couldn't remember the exact year, but he knew for sure he was no older than seven—his mother had been there. He could remember her holding the picnic basket and humming some silly tune or another. Her hair was the same color as her son's hair, tied in a loose braid to keep it in place. His father, pale and serious, had pushed his glasses up his nose and warned her to watch her step, but when he thought she wasn't looking he had allowed himself to smile, just a little.

Autor could remember sitting in his mothers lap, sandwich in hand, telling his mother all about the bugs and leaves he had seen on the way to the picnic. She had seen them too, of course, but listened carefully to every word, nodding her head every now and then, ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the appropriate moments. At one point in his story, he had reached up to touch the sparkling earring she was wearing, but she swatted his hand away, telling him (not for the first or last time) that he shouldn't grab at her earrings when she was wearing them, no matter how tempting it was.

After eating his food, he had gone down to the pond and watched the pollywogs swim, squinting to look past the sunlight glinting in the water. At one point, he borrowed an empty jar from his mother and dunked it into the water, catching a few pollywogs into it. He ran up to his parents and showed them, proudly carrying the jar like a trophy. This earned him one of his father's rare smiles, which encouraged him to try to catch more. He threw his heart into capturing all of the pollywogs, not realizing that every single time he dunked the jar into the river to catch them, as many pollywogs would get out as he put in. It was a never-ending game, but the boy didn't care. He would continue to try to capture the pollywogs, no matter how many slipped through his fingers. He wouldn't give up, and was still working to capture them in his jar when his father called for him to come back. He had refused, and ended up having to be dragged away from the pond, kicking and screaming and saying he still had more to catch.

"Sometimes you have to know when to change your focus, Autor," his father had lectured that day. Autor had thought to himself, a decade later, that what he had said that day could have been one of the most ironic things he had ever heard his father say to him. He may have inherited his mother's hair color, but his stubbornness was inherited from his father.

Autor looked once again at the sunlight filtering through the library window, idly fingering the pages of the book in front of him. He wasn't really an outdoors person, but that memory was still fresh in his mind, and he could rarely feel in a bad mood with weather like this. Maybe when (if?) he had children some day he'd bring them out to the pond to catch pollywogs…

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

"Lovey-dovey-donkey-lonkey! Lovey-dovey-donkey-lonkey! Lovey-dovey-donkey-lonkey! Lovey-dovey-donkey-lonkey! Lovey-dovey-donkey-lonkey!"

…Or, he could just not have children and save himself from the years of headaches.

"_Would you PLEASE be quiet?!"_


	7. Fic 7: Idle Gossip

**Title:** Idle Gossip  
**Day/Theme:** April 5: Whispers  
**Series:** Princess Tutu  
**Character/Pairing:** Autor, mentions of Uhrmacher (OC)  
**Rating:** PG (just in case)

"There's that weird guy again."  
"What's his name again?"  
"Autor, or something."

Autor didn't even look up when he heard his name whispered. The moment he heard the word "weird" he knew they were talking about him.

"He's always here in the library, every time I come."  
"Really? Most people don't really come in here often."  
"He does. It seems like he's always here when he's not in class."  
"Odd. Maybe he's just studious?"

'Researching, actually,' is what Autor wanted to say. But he knew there wasn't any point in striking up a conversation with gossips.

"I doubt it. He's in the music division like me. We don't need that many books for our homework."  
"Oh…"  
"Plus…"  
"Yes?"  
"The other day…I heard Mr. Penguin threaten him with the probationary class."

Autor tensed. How did she know that? He had been called aside after class when the rest of the students were leaving…

He glanced up from his book for a moment to get a look at the girl who had spoken.  
Oh. Her. A brunette girl, one of the gossipy flutists in his class. Come to think of it, she had been dawdling in the hall when he came out of class that day.

"What? Really? No way!"  
"Really! He's been doing really terribly with his piano playing lately. I'm starting to think he doesn't even practice at all!"

That wasn't true. He had been practicing. Not as much as he used to, maybe, but he still practiced every day. It wasn't like he'd given up on it…  
"Wow! So what's he doing in the library, then? Isn't he worried about his grades suffering?"  
"He's probably too obsessed with his books to care."  
"Huh? What do you mean?"  
"Did you see that dark-haired man that used to wander down by the south gate? Herr Uhrmacher?"

Now what? Why bring up his father?

"No, I don't remember anyone like that…"  
"Well…he was sort of quiet. Easy to miss. And he died a little bit ago, too."

Seven months and tweleve days, to be exact. And Autor still wasn't used to how quiet his house was.

"…But he was sort of weird."  
"Weird? How?"  
"Well, if you _did_ talk to him, he would talk about…Drosselmeyer, and things."  
"You mean that author that used to live here a long time ago?"

The greatest author that ever lived.

"Yeah. He wrote The Prince and the Raven and other books."  
"Oh, so…Uhrmacher liked those books?"  
"You could say that. A better way to put it was that he was obsessed with the guy. And then sometimes he would go on about…puppet shows, or something."

Marionettes, not puppet shows. _'Everyone's a marionette, Autor.'_ His father had said that the day his mother…

"That _is_ weird…but what does it have to do with Autor?"  
"Well, Herr Uhrmacher was his father…"  
"Oh…so those books…they're probably…"  
"Drosselmeyer's? Yeah."  
"But why in the world would he waste his time with those books if his schoolwork's suffering so much?"  
"I told you…his father was obsessed with that guy. I bet he's just starting to take after his father more than his mother."  
"Huh?"  
"She was a pianist, too. I'm guessing that's why he went into the music division in the first place."

No. He went into the music division because he loved music. He wasn't trying to be as good of a player as his mother was—that would've been impossible.

"So…she wasn't as weird as his father, then?"  
"Not at all. She was really beautiful, too."  
"How'd she end up with a guy like Uhrmacher, then?"  
"I don't know. Although they seemed a little distant when I saw them together. It was almost as if they had been fighting about something."

…That was absurd. His parents loved each other. They didn't fight any more than any other husband and wife. And how in the world did she even know what his parents seemed like together? She would've been a child when his mother disappeared. _She's probably just repeating some idle gossip of her mother's…_

"Did she seem upset when her husband died?"  
"What? No, she was already gone."  
"Gone? She died, too?"  
"No one knows. One day she just…disappeared. Although…"  
"Hm?"  
"If things were getting bad between them…Uhrmacher was crazy enough, that maybe…he had something to do with it."

That's it. Autor had enough of this. He couldn't believe people were still repeating that ridiculous rumor.  
He stood up from his seat, grabbing his books off of the desk and walking towards the door. On his way out, he walked past the two girls that had been whispering among themselves.  
"You shouldn't talk so much in a library," he told them, sunlight from a nearby window glinting off of his glasses. "It's very rude."

He turned and walked away, leaving the two girls staring after him.  
"You don't think he heard us, do you?"  
"I doubt it. He would've said something earlier if he had."


	8. Fic 8: The Stalker

Well, it's been a while, but I'm back. I've actually been plugging away at these for a while, but I've been too lazy to upload them (you'll notice how the theme says April 8th, but it's Jun 9th--that's because, yes, I wrote this that long ago.) I'm actually ALMOSTdone with the Autor challenge and gearing up to start on a new one soon. So, yes...I'm quite behind on uploading these. ; Hopefully the flood of new chapters in the coming days won't disorient you all long.

Back when I wrote this I was toying with ideas of different pairings Autor could be in...I eventually settled on one I like the best (besides one-sided Autor/Rue), but I think Autor and Malen make a cute pair, as well.

Well, time for the story.

* * *

**Title:** The Stalker**  
Day/Theme:** April 8: Companion  
**Series:** Princess Tutu**  
Character/Pairing:** Autor, Malen…possibly Autor/Malen depending on how you look at it**  
Rating:** G

If Autor was honest with himself, he would admit that he knew quite a bit about following people. Autor was generally not the most honest person, even with himself, but despite the slightly creepy feeling he had when he thought about it, yes—he knew quite a bit about following people, indeed.  
But that was _following_ people. He wasn't used at all to _being_ followed.

It had started the previous day as he had sat down (alone) to eat his typical midday meal, a book resting in front of him on the table as he ate. A normal day, by all accounts. He was engrossed in his book, happily blocking out all of the mindless chatter of the students around him, when a noise crashed through the wall of words. A noise that didn't normally belong to the common eating area.  
He looked up from his book and pushed his glasses up his nose, fully intending to tell the person just how loud they were being, but what he saw stopped any words from leaving his mouth.  
On the ground sat a girl with pale green hair and glasses. Next to her were the remains of a shattered plate—the cause of the noise, Autor assumed. The girl was rubbing her ankle and looking forlornly at the food that was scattered on the floor. A few of the students began to chuckle.  
Typically, Autor would have done the same thing— gazed down at her from his high pedestal with a look that expressed just how pathetic he thought the girl was. He wasn't sure why this time was different—maybe it was his own fall down the hill he had recently had. Maybe it was the tears he could see slowly forming in her eyes as the laughter got louder.

Whatever the reason, before he knew it he was getting up from his seat and walking over to the girl. "Are you hurt?" he asked, a little awkwardly.  
The green-haired girl blinked up at him, looking a little surprised. "I-I don't think so."  
"Then why do you keep rubbing your ankle like that?"  
"I…I suppose it hurts a little."  
Autor did his best not to roll his eyes. "That counts as being hurt, silly."  
"I'm sorry."  
Could she _look_ any more pathetic? "Do you think you can walk on it?"  
She paused for a moment, looking at her ankle and seeming to consider the question for a moment before responding. "I believe so."  
"Here." He held out his hand. She took it and rose to her feet, leaning against his arm a little when she gingerly put weight on her injured ankle. With a little effort, Autor took her over to the table he'd be sitting at, and guided her to a seat.

"I'm assuming that was your lunch?" Autor said, gesturing towards the mess she had left on the ground.  
"Yes," she admitted.  
"Do you have anything else to eat?"  
"…I could find something."  
This time Autor _did_ roll his eyes. "So you don't, then."  
The girl shook her head, silently.  
Her glasses-wearing 'savior' couldn't help but sigh. "Of course you don't. …Alright. I haven't touched this portion of my food at all…have that."  
"Oh, no, I couldn't!" the girl said, eyes wide with surprise. "That's your lunch, isn't it?"  
"I'm not that hungry. Besides, I'll be busy cleaning up your mess." And before the girl could argue, he turned and went to fetch cleaning supplies from a member of the school staff.

It wasn't difficult work, really. When you live by yourself, you either have to get used to cleaning, or get used to a constant mess. The latter wasn't an option when you were as meticulous as Autor, so he had managed to become a fairly decent housekeeper. (Of course, if someone had asked he would have probably said he had servants to that, because he had more important things to do than sweep and dust. If he had, it would've been an outright lie—the servants had left not too long after his mother.)

As soon as he was done cleaning the floor and returning the supplies, he checked his watch. Hm. It was later than he thought.  
"You should get to class," he told the girl.  
"Did you eat anything?"  
How did she manage to ask the exact question he didn't want her to ask? "A little. It was enough."  
"…Thank you."  
It was funny how a simple phrase like "thank you" could throw a person off track for a moment. "I'm sorry?"  
"Thank you…er…w-what's your name?"  
"Erm. It's…Autor."  
"It's nice to meet you, Autor. I'm Malen."  
"Nice to meet you, too," he responded. (Was that a lie, or the truth? He wasn't sure.)  
The girl had handed him his book and—after thanking him once again (and again, and once more if he hadn't had stopped her)—walked out of the eating room, leaving him more than a little bewildered. Odd girl. A little pathetic, too. Appalling, even.

Autor had been determined to not worry with the incident—she didn't appear to be in his division, so he doubted he'd ever have a reason to remember her name. But the next day, while he was walking to the library, he caught a glimpse of green hair reflected in one of the school's windows. He stopped immediately, slightly stunned, and just as suddenly the reflection disappeared. He turned to look, and couldn't see anyone there.

And now he was starting to see things. That girl was doing bizarre things to his mind.

He once again started to walk, at first making a noticeable effort to not look into any windows. But after a few minutes, he couldn't resist stealing another glance into the reflective glass and…there it was again. This time, he continued to walk a short distance, before he stopped and pretended to take particular interest in a rose bush by the path. As he bent down to examine one of the roses, he glanced to the right.

Yes, that was definitely Malen. And yes, she was watching him—she was standing behind a statue a few yards away, seemingly unsure as to what she should do as he made his short detour.

He straightened and continued walking to the library. _Maybe she just happens to be going in the same direction,_ he told himself. _Maybe she's just going to study at the library, herself._

_Yes, Autor, that's a perfectly good, reasonable explanation._

But when he reached the library and sat down with his usual large stack of books, he could still feel eyes watching him. Constantly. He wasn't used to that…the occasional glance a him wasn't unusual. Someone stealing a look as they whispered to their friends…not that weird.  
But a complete stare? That wasn't a common occurrence.

Well, if she wanted to stare, let her stare. Maybe she was just taken in by…his…good looks. That must be it.  
(There was a near-audible snort of disbelief in his head at this thought, but he ignored it.)  
He picked up the first book in his stack and began to read.

"For as long as there have been stories, men have gazed up at what we call the 'Northern Lights' in awe," began the book in the familiar style of Drosselmeyer's prose. "However, what men have forgotten is the shining colors we see in the northern sky are actually the gown of a Princess named Aurora—"  
Which was better—the whispered gossip, the obnoxious chatter that used to be heard in the library back when Duck was a girl, or this ominous silence combined with the knowledge that you're feeling watched? Autor couldn't decide. On one hand, at least she didn't have any malicious intent (…as far as he could tell). And it wasn't like she was disturbing him while he studied.

…No, that wasn't true. She _was_ disturbing him. She was disturbing him quite a bit.

He left the library early that day. Thankfully, for the sake of his sanity, the girl didn't appear to want to follow him outside of the gates of the Academy, and he was able to return to his home without incident. He breathed a sigh of relief when he entered, and decided to read his books there instead.

It wouldn't do to think about her, he decided. People had their odd quirks. She probably wouldn't be there the next day.

She was. Every single moment that they didn't have classes, it felt as though she was there. During his daily piano practice, she was there. Lunch? She was there. And she was once again behind him as he went to the library.  
Once again, he wasn't able to concentrate. Normally he almost had the words memorized by heart, but now? He read one sentence a half a dozen times before he finally gave up. He set down the book on the desk with a huff and began to stand.  
Then, oddly enough, he saw a blur of green hair and a tan-colored uniform as the girl got up from her seat and ran to the front door. She was waiting for him there when he walked out of the library.

"You know," he began before she had a chance to speak, "following me around all day is probably just going to injure your ankle more."  
"Oh! I…it's just bruised. It's almost better already," she said in her typical quiet voice. "A-and I wanted to make sure I'd finish it quickly."  
"Finish…what quickly?"

The girl smiled softly and opened up a sketch book she had been carrying under her arm, turning to the page most recently drawn on. There, Autor saw a drawing of a boy seated at a library desk that looked remarkably like him. Not a perfect, photographic portrayal of course, but a reasonable likeness.  
"…I wanted to thank you for the other day," the girl said, looking at his face as if she was trying to read his expression like a book. "And…I'm in the Art division, so…I thought that if I drew you a picture…  
"I'm sorry about the smudge in the middle of the page…I drew you reading a book at first, but…I saw you look out of the window and…I thought that might be a better pose."  
Autor had already noticed the smudge and had been paying particular attention to it, but when she mentioned the pose he glanced up at the drawing instead. The boy in the sketch was glancing out of the window, his chin cradled in the palm of his hand. His lips were slightly parted, and on his face was a look of…what was that emotion? Wistfulness? Maybe with a tinge of…loneliness?

That's pathetic, he told himself. He didn't look like that.

"It's…decent," he mumbled. He slid the sketch in-between the pages of one of his books. Malen winced a little—wouldn't the pencil marks smudge even more if he did that?—but clasped her hands in front of herself and said nothing.  
"You seem to be paying attention during your lessons," Autor continued, more boldly this time. "Good."  
"Ah…thank you," the girl responded, sounding slightly disappointed. "Well…have a good day."  
She turned and began to walk down the path. As soon as she wasn't looking, Autor pulled out the drawing again to look at it.

…Yes, that was definitely loneliness. And insecurity. And a dozen other useless, weak emotions he had never seen cross his face when he looked at himself in the mirror in the morning.  
Of course…he was generally not the most honest person, even with himself.

"Hey...wait up! Your name…it's Malen, right? …Do you have any plans for lunch tomorrow?"


	9. Fic 9: Slipping Away

This fic used to be twice as long, but I cut out the first half, which had Johanna and Uhrmacher arguing over things about the writing powers and Drosselmeyer. I might reuse it for a later fic, I'm not sure.

BTW, Johanna's name comes from the singer Jenny Lind, who was nicknamed 'the Swedish Nightingale'. Hans Christian Anderson was in love with Jenny Lind and wrote three fairy tales inspired by her (The Ugly Duckling was one of them, I believe), but Lind only saw him as a friend.

* * *

**Title:** Slipping Away  
**Day/Theme:** April 9: Silent passage  
**Series:** Princess Tutu  
**Character/Pairing:** Johanna (OC), some of Autor and Uhrmacher (OC)  
**Rating:** PG

Johanna knew something was wrong the moment she woke up. There it was again—that familiar feeling, like a string that was attached to her being pulled. She hated that feeling, and had never grown used to it, even though she had felt it as long as she could remember. Deciding that she was too tired to struggle at the moment, she slipped out of bed and quickly dressed. For some reason, she also felt like putting on her favorite hat. She adjusted it in the mirror and frowned at her reflection—this is what she was reduced to? A puppet?

She caught a glimpse of her son as she walked out of her room and out to the entry way. Autor…he was only a child. He didn't understand what was happening at all. He had no idea what the recent crow attacks might mean for him…  
Trying not to think of the danger he could be in, she walked into her husband's study, this time moving of her own free will. Uhrmacher was asleep at the desk, a few of Drosselmeyer's books piled around him. She shook her head sadly as she took a piece of paper and a quill off of the desk. She often tried to tell him that researching Drosselmeyer was dangerous, but…

She quickly wrote out a paragraph on the sheet of paper. No time to make it an elegant piece of prose, just something, _anything. _She could feel the strings start to tug again. She set the piece of paper down on the desk, then shook Uhrmacher's arm.  
He barely even stirred. Of course…that was probably part of the play, as well. She walked out of the study and through the house until she reached the entryway, slipped on her shoes, and walked outside.

She did enjoy going on walks, but…not at this time of the night. The normally bustling town was as quiet as an empty theater at this time of night. Johanna was the only actor in this play.

As she was tugged along through the city streets, she couldn't help but wonder how much of her life had been just part of the story. When she and Uhrmacher had met, did she find him attractive because the story told her she did, or was it of her own volition?  
And Autor, then…was he just another character written into the story? Was he planned and outlined before she had ever even seriously considered the idea of having a child at all?

The strings were pulling her along towards the bridge over the river. Once there, she was allowed to stop.

The river's current was strong tonight—recent heavy rains had caused the river to swell. She watched a twig bob helplessly in the water, twisting and turning in the current.

…That twig probably wasn't even important enough to be a puppet.

Suddenly, unimportant sounded like a pleasant existence. No feeling that you're constantly being pulled along…no worrying about what would happen if you dared do something that _he _didn't agree with.

"I hate you, Drosselmeyer," the woman hissed under her breath as she watched the water below her. "I hate you and every word you write."

She felt another tug, and took a step closer to the railing of the bridge.

"..So that's what you mean to do."

Another step.

She couldn't do anything to protect her family if she stayed with them. In fact…the safest thing would probably be if she wasn't there. She knew this…she wrote that.

Another tug, and she leaned out across the railing of the bridge.

It would be a way to finally be free of the strings…

A puppet couldn't move without its strings, but at least it was _free. _

_Freedom…_


	10. Fic 10: Sunflower Yellow

This is a sort of continuation of the fic before it, 'Slipping Away'. I haven't had a chance to write much about Uhrmacher in the challenge, unfortunantely...he's fun to write for, though. (Although I'm not sure if he quite sounds like a man in his 30's like he should. I'm only 19, so sometimes I wonder if I really can write adults that well. I mean, I know I'm an adult, but I mean an adult that's married and with a family and such. But oh well.)

* * *

**Title:** The Discovery in the River  
**Day/Theme:** April 10: Recollection of light  
**Series:** Princess Tutu  
**Character/Pairing:** Uhrmacher, Autor  
**Rating:** PG

"_You…you're reading a book by Drosselmeyer, aren't you?"_  
"_Ha-ha. That's an odd way to start a conversation…but yes, I am."_  
"_I'm…sorry. I just couldn't help but notice. He's one of my favorite authors."  
"Really? Mine, too!"_  
"_Really…?"_  
"_Yes! …What's your name?"_  
"_Oh…I'm sorry. My name is Uhrmacher."_  
"_Uhrmacher? That's odd, but I like it. …My name is Johanna."_

The first thing Uhrmacher noticed when he woke up that morning (once he blinked a few times and orientated himself) is that it was startlingly quiet for a Saturday morning. Johanna had grown up cooking for herself, and always insisted that the servants should have time off on the weekends. Besides, she said, she enjoyed cooking. So Uhrmacher always expected to be woken up on Saturdays by the sound of banging pots and pans and the sounds of cupboards being quickly opened and closed. (Johanna was never accused of being elegant. Beautiful, yes, but quiet or elegant? No. "There's a reason I'm not in the ballet division!" she had once told him with a laugh.)

He frowned, sitting up and reorganizing a few papers that had been shuffled around the desk in his sleep. As he did so, his caught a glimpse of a paper that he didn't remember being there the night before. He picked it up, noting that it seemed to be written in his wife's handwriting, and quickly scanned the page.

It appeared to be a story, but he couldn't make much sense of it. A nightingale…and…she felt she had to leave her cage to save a treasure…? What did that mean? And when had Johanna begun to write stories again? She hadn't done so since…

The silence in the kitchen once again bothered Uhrmacher. The nightingale felt she had to leave?

Tossing the story aside, Uhrmacher got up from his desk and quickly searched the rooms of his house. Autor poked his head outside of his room as Uhrmacher walked past.

"Dad…?" he said, blinking sleep out of his eyes. "What're you looking for?"  
"…Nothing in particular. I'm just trying to figure out where your mother went to. Have you seen her?"  
"Huh? No. I just woke up."  
"Hm…I think I'm going to go out for a walk. Stay here and be good."  
"I'll go with you!"  
"No, Autor. Stay here."

Uhrmacher left the house as soon as he could, ignoring his normal worries about his appearance. She couldn't have gotten far—the ink on the paper appeared to be relatively fresh.  
He walked the path he knew she often liked to walk throughout the town, but didn't notice any signs of her. _This is silly,_ he told himself. _She probably just needed some fresh air. Nothing happened to her._

She wasn't still upset about the argument they had the night before, was she? Uhrmacher frowned. No, it wasn't a particularly bad argument; surely she wouldn't still be upset.  
He walked a little faster.

He was crossing the bridge when he saw it out of the corner of his eye—a weathered hat caught on a tree root that was growing into the river. He recognized it instantly—straw, with a sunflower-yellow ribbon tied around it. (Yellow was always her favorite color. Bright and cheery. That color was all over their house—plates, bedding, tapestries. She had even had a sunflower in her wedding bouquet.)

Uhrmacher quickly ran down to the bank, nervously holding onto the tree root as he leaned out to retrieve the hat. He was careful not to fall in—the river was particularly dangerous because of recent rains…  
He shivered when he finally had the hat in his hands. It was hers…there was no doubt in his mind it was hers. It was her favorite.

He didn't move from that bank for a long time, simply staring at the hat. If he had found the hat in the river…and if she was missing…then, logically…she must be in the river as well.  
So…she fell in, then? How long? He should go get some help; surely with some help they could find her…

He frowned. This bank was impossible to get to at night—they kept the gate locked. In fact, they did it to keep people from falling into the river at night. He climbed back up to the bridge, leaning against it and looking out.  
She was never the most elegant woman…she could've fallen from here, couldn't she?  
…No. The bridge railing was high. He was a tall man, and the railing still reached to his chest—even he would have a hard time falling in.  
…Unless he climbed over it and...jumped.

…No. She did not jump.  
…But it was extremely difficult, if not impossible, for her to fall.  
…Why? There was no warning. She seemed fine. Worried about Autor, but as full of life as ever. Why would she jump?  
…Unless…her powers overwhelmed her.

No. No, this was impossible. Some sort of mistake…

Uhrmacher stumbled back to his home, barely conscious of the world around him, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. A town controlled by stories. A man long dead. A woman that discovered a love for writing. A beautiful woman that loved to sing and play the piano and tell stories that way…but also wrote stories on paper…and when she did…

A nightingale. A nightingale that wanted to escape her cage to protect a treasure.  
A woman that loved to sing. That expressed fear for the lives of her son and husband.  
A town controlled by stories, by a puppet master long dead.  
Puppets…

The pieces were there. They seemed to fit, but…at the same time…

When he reached his home, he put her hat back into wardrobe, even though it was covered in mud and soaking wet.  
"Dad? Did you find her?"  
Uhrmacher turned and looked at the boy staring at him from the doorway. How could he explain something like this to a child…?  
"No," he said, hesitantly. "I couldn't find her. …She's gone."  
"Gone?"  
"Yes, Autor, gone. She's…missing."  
"So why are you here? We have to go find her!"  
"…We will…later…I'll ask the guard to help me look." He should at least find her body if he could, after all.  
"No. Now! I want to look for her now!"  
"Autor…I think it may take a long time to find your mother."  
"But why? Why isn't she here?"  
"…Someone didn't want her here."  
"What? Why?"  
"…Because…because everyone's a marionette, Autor."


	11. Fic 11: Narcissus

**Title: **Narcissus**  
Day/Theme: **April 14: Reflections in the water**  
Series: **Princess Tutu**  
Character/Pairing: **Autor, Pique**  
Rating: **G

Autor leaned out over the river, pushing his left hand against the bank to steady himself, and stared at his reflection in the water. It stared back out at him, looking at the subtly haughty smirk on his lips and the hazel eyes shining with stubbornness and curiosity, hidden behind glass held in a metal frame. He traced his eyes along every inch of the face in the water, searching for a lost love.

He frowned when he saw another figure's mirror image in the water.  
"What are you doing?" he asked, with just a hint of irritation in his voice.  
"What are _you _doing?" she echoed, violet eyes meeting the reflection's hazel. "You _know _the river's dangerous right now. There's been a lot of rain lately."  
"I know. I won't fall in."  
"You might. People fall in this river all the time. That's why the gate's locked at night."  
The river mimicked his sour expression. "That's to keep people like _you _safe."

Pique crouched down to his level, her eyes flashing. "_Listen_, Autor! I don't know what your deal is, but you've got a plenty of mirrors at your home! Why don't you just go home and use that to do whatever you're doing? Unless you WANT to fall into the river."  
"Do you have to keep prattling on like that? I'm starting to suspect you like the sound of your own voice a bit too much."  
"Look who's talking," Pique muttered under her breath. She wrapped her arms around Autor's right arm and began to pull. "Come on! Let's GO." At the word 'go' she jerked his arm again, knocking him off balance. He whirled his left arm in the air to keep himself from falling into the river.  
"Don't!" he yelped, "You're going to MAKE me fall in if you do that!"  
"Autor, I want to go!"  
"In a moment! Just give me a moment more!!"  
"You know, stare at your reflection all you want, I don't care. I'm sure it's quite beautiful to you, I can see why you'd hate to part with it."

Autor winced when she said those words, but hesitated as she turned. There was a part of him that just wanted to let her go. No sense in keeping her here when she didn't want to be.

But, at the same time, he didn't want to be left alone with just a reflection.

"Pique, wait."  
"What now?"  
"…It's easier to see things differently in the river than it is in the mirror."  
"What in the world are you talking about?"  
Autor sighed, leaning away from the bank and adjusting his glasses. "I look at myself in the mirror at least once a day. I'm used to looking into it. It's easier to look into something else if I want to see something I normally don't pay attention to."  
"…You're still not making much sense."  
"Alright, listen…" he said, starting to talk in his "explaining" voice. (Pique knew that tone of voice well, and wasn't at all fond of it, but decided that just this once she'd humor him.)  
"You know that woman that sells fruit in a stall nearby the main square?"  
"The crazy one that says her family's orchard was blessed by some sort of fairy or something and insists they're the best you can get anywhere because they're magical?"  
"Yes, _that _woman. That fruit is actually quite good, you know. I wouldn't say magical, but…"  
"OK. What about her? Unless you just wanted to talk about fruit."  
"Well…it's just that…I've gone twice a week every week since my father's death to buy fruit from her, and week after week she always calls me 'Uhrmacher', without fail. I used to try to tell her that I wasn't Uhrmacher, I was his son, but she never listened to me, so I gave up and started responding to it."  
"Whoa…she's even crazier than I thought!"  
"You get used to it…that's why it was so jarring to me."  
"What was?"  
"Today, she didn't call me Uhrmacher. She looked me straight in the eye and said 'Oh, Autor, you look so much like your mother.'"

The pair was silent for a moment, neither exactly sure how to continue the conversation. The river babbled a few suggestions on how to move forward, but the two ignored it.  
"So," Pique said when she finally had the nerve to speak again, "you were trying to see your mother?"  
"I suppose you could say that."  
"…And did you?"  
"No. It was silly to think I could. Mom was…_is_ beautiful."  
"…Maybe you shouldn't be looking for your mother in a river."  
"Then where am I supposed to look?"

There was another long pause. Autor picked a daffodil that was growing on the bank and twirled it between his fingers, watching it spin. "Sometimes, I almost think my father's death was easier."  
"But…your mom might still be alive."  
"Yes, but she _might _be dead. That's the thing…I don't know. I might die without ever knowing, just like my father."  
"Autor…if she _is _alive, do you think she's going to want to come back to the sight of her son moping by the river?"  
Autor gave the flower one last twirl, and then looked up at his friend. "Probably not."  
"So, what're you doing? Let's go get some pizza at the café or something."  
"I'm guessing I'm buying."  
"Of course!" the violet-haired girl said with a grin. "What do you say?"  
The boy allowed the ghost of a smile to cross his face. "Sounds nice."  
He tossed the flower down onto the bank, leaving it to stare at its twin in the water. Why spend your time staring at a reflection when you've got good company to entertain?

* * *

A/N: I tried to put a lot of references to the original Narcissus myth into this fic (even though the story itself is pretty different). As for how Autor and Pique became friends...honestly, I don't really know. I like Mouself's version in her Bespectacled collection, though. Whatever it is, it was probably something to do with the school. 


	12. Fic 12: Backwards

**Title: **Backwards**  
Day/Theme: **April 16: Time**  
Series: **Princess Tutu**  
Character/Pairing: **Autor, Johanna, Professor Penguin, Fakir (briefly)**  
Rating: **G

"What's going on?!"

Autor looked up at the former knight briefly before ducking his head down again, struggling to remain upright against the fierce wind. The wind whistled past his ears, carrying harshly whispered words. Autor had felt the sensation before, but never quite like this.

"_!utuT sscnirP ,elpoep tnanguper esoht raen eb ot suoregnad s'tI" ohce eciov s'reyemlessorD raeh dluoc ehs, evarg eht sdrawot kcab nward saw ehs sA…_

"The story is flowing backwards!" Autor exclaimed.  
"What?!" Fakir looked over his shoulder at him, frowning. Autor couldn't blame him for being skeptical—he could hardly believe it himself, even though he had—

He felt a tug on his shoulder, pulling him backwards. _No! I don't WANT to go back there!_  
"STOP IT!" he yelled—but whether it was to Fakir or the strings pulling him back, he wasn't sure. Fakir's eyes widened. "Hurry and stop it with your pen!" he said to him. The strings pulled harder, and he stumbled backwards, his legs beginning to move on their own. "Fakir—" his legs propelled him backwards, stumbling past the Book Men as they walked back towards the grave, axes in hand "—you can't let the story go backwards, people aren't supposed to…"

His legs began to move faster, and he grew silent. No point anymore, Fakir was certainly where he couldn't hear Autor anymore. Images began to flash before his eyes—a crimson-eyed girl removing her hand from his chest and backing away, then an image of electric energy crackling around him as he was thrown towards Fakir, then an image of him looking away from the grumpy descendant as he sat down to play the Spinning Song…backwards.

He watched a shadow of himself move backwards through the daily routine of his life: reading a chapter from a book before bed, going to the library, piano practice, eating his midday meal in the common eating area, sitting through Professor Penguin's lectures, walking to school, combing his hair perfectly into place, fumbling for his glasses bleary-eyed as he woke up in the morning. Autor noted that day after day he performed his routine alone. A frown crossed his face when he noticed this.

Suddenly he felt a jerk and stumbled. The wind and quickly flashing images stopped, instead leaving him in a scene with muted colors, as if it was from a dream, or a distant memory.  
"_Dead?_" he heard his own voice say, muffled slightly as if he was hearing it from a distance. "What do you mean he's _dead?_"  
He blinked. Was that _him_ sitting in front of that desk? Yes, he decided, that must be himself—his hair was shorter then, and he seemed slightly awkward in a school jacket that was perhaps a bit too large for his thin frame, but it was still the same face he saw in the mirror every morning as he got ready for class.  
Well, maybe not the exactly same face—there was no trace of the confidence he normally saw.  
"I'm sorry, Autor," his teacher said, sitting down across from him with a heavy sigh escaping his beak. "We only just received the news this morning. Apparently the doctor hadn't expected it to progress to this point at all."  
"I-I don't understand. He's very healthy. There must be a mistake." Autor winced when the boy's voice broke. He wasn't sure if it was from emotion, or the uncomfortable affects of puberty. _Probably both,_ he thought to himself.  
"Pneumonia can be very deadly, Autor, even for generally healthy people."  
The boy at the desk buried his head in his hands, silent. The teacher in front of him hesitated for a moment, before leaning forward in his chair and speaking in a gentle tone. "We can give you some time off from school to visit your mother and work out the details. You're a good student, I'm sure you can easily catch up with the class."  
"My mother's…missing."  
The professor straightened. "She's what?"  
"Missing. For a while now. It is—was—just me and my father."  
"…I see. Do you have any close relatives you can go to?"  
The boy shook his head.  
"Aunts? Uncles?"  
"Both of my parents were only children."  
"Grandparents?"  
"Dead."  
An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Finally, the boy stood up from his chair and adjusted his glasses. "If it's alright with you, I'd like to take that offer of the break…I have to arrange my father's funeral."

As those words left the shadow's mouth, Autor could feel himself begin to be pulled backwards again. This time he didn't even fight it, allowing himself to be pulled along with the backwards flow of the story. This time, instead of a lonely teen going about his daily routine at the Academy, he saw a curious, energetic boy constantly running from one adventure to the next. He watched as the boy pulled books from the shelf and proudly ran to a dark-haired man to read it aloud to him. The man would always smile and listen, but when the boy wasn't looking, the man would turn to look out the window and at the river glistening in the distance.

Off in the distance, he could hear a song being played on a piano, and a clear, gentle voice singing along with it. Autor caught himself humming along without even thinking about it—he had heard that song countless times when he was younger.

The story once again jolted to a stop, depositing Autor into a scene set in his own home. A woman with blue-violet hair sat at the piano, singing and smiling. On her lap sat a boy with hair the same shade. Her hands played the song slower than normal to allow the boy's hands to rest on top of them, his little fingers struggling to keep up with her own to learn the song for himself. After a moment, the woman smiled and gently withdrew her hands. "Try it, Autor."  
"I can't."  
"You can!"  
The boy hesitated, then reached his hands out to the keys, slowly playing the woman's song. When he hit the wrong note, the woman would gently correct him.  
When the boy finished the song, he grinned and looked up at the woman. "I _did _do it!"  
"See?" she said with a laugh. "I knew you could!"  
"I can, I can!" the boy said excitedly, his grin growing wider. The woman laughed again.  
"Oh, Autor. You have such a wonderful smile! And you're so talented as well…I'm sure you're going to make people very happy your whole life."  
_Mom…_  
"You really think so, Mommy?"  
"I know so!" She gently combed her fingers through his hair, looking into his eyes with a smile. "Make people happy for me, won't you?"  
"I will! And you should make people happy, too!"  
"I promise to if you promise to."  
"I promise!"

_I forgot I promised that…have I kept my promise? …Do I make people happy?_  
…_Mom…I…_  
"I love you, Autor."  
_I love you, too._

There was another jolt. He was still in his living room, still standing next to the piano, but now the colors returned to their full depth. Autor had to blink to keep his eyes from tearing up—the colors felt too garish and bright compared to the memory just moments before. He glanced up at the clock to reassure himself that the story was once again moving forward as it should. It was.

He took a shaky breath. Being dragged backwards through the story at such a brisk pace had taken more of a toll on him than he had thought.  
Another shaky breath. _Don't be silly,_ he scolded himself. _All you did was walk backwards a little. You didn't run a marathon._

He straightened, adjusting his glasses and taking another breath, this one deeper and stronger. He should be getting back to Drosselmeyer's grave.

* * *

A/N: The dialogue in the beginning is from the dub of Akt 23 (the dub's easier to transcribe for me, so I tend to use that since it's fairly close to the subtitles). I had actually originally planned a couple more scenes in this fic, but I got close to the deadline and ran out of time to write it.

I've always wondered exactly what Autor saw when he went backwards, since the anime never shows it...when he comes back at the beginning of Akt 24 he seems a bit disturbed, and he's not acting as prideful and snobbish as he normally does...whatever it was, it seems to have shaken him. It really makes me curious...so this fic was the answer to that question.


	13. Fic 13: Three Wishes

Title: Three Wishes  
Day/Theme: April 17: As one wishes  
Series: Princess Tutu  
Character/Pairing: Autor, Pique(?)  
Rating: G

What would I wish for if I had three wishes?

Hm, well. One has to wonder if there are any restrictions to this, first of all. Some stories have restrictions placed on the wishes, and some don't. Sometimes the genie (or fairy, or magical tree, or whatever the wish-giving plot device happens to be) will lay out rules, like "no killing anyone" or "only material objects" or "whatever you wish will also happen to your enemy."

…Actually, I believe the last one wasn't from a story, but a joke. I can't remember what the punch line of it was, though…

All right, well, the question doesn't seem to place any restrictions, so let's say there aren't any. I only have three, so I shouldn't waste them. The wishes that would be of maximum worth would lead to the most advantage…so, instead of a material object, best to wish for unlimited wealth—you could get that one object, and whatever else you wanted. Of course, with unlimited wealth you could do a lot of good, too…you could be the patron of an underappreciated artist, let's say. Beggars, you could help those, too. Why, nobody in Kinkan Town would go hungry again if the right person had that sort of wealth…

Although, if the common good is what you want, why stop there? Why not say "I wish no one would ever go hungry", or "I wish for world peace." Ah, world peace, that's a good one. No war, then the different governments could spend their time worrying about other problems.

Okay, so, unlimited wealth, world peace. There's two. Now, the third…

…I _could _say "I wish Rue would love me." Of course, then you come to the sticky moral question of whether or not that is truly love. If you have to force someone to love you…no, no, that's probably not right. So what then? I wish…what? I wish somebody would love me? No, that wouldn't work right either, because then it could be…anyone. It could be…_Lilie._

…Okay, no, 'somebody' is far too vague.

Forget the love idea, that's not going to work.

Alright, so…hm…unlimited wealth…world peace…?

Ah. Knowledge. That'd be a noble wish. I wish I had all of the world knowledge? Or would it be better to wish for _wisdom _instead of knowledge? What good is knowledge if you don't know how to use it, after all?

Oh, perhaps you could wish for wisdom _first_, and then use the other wishes. That way you would be sure to hit upon the best wishes you could.

Yes, that sounds about right…

* * *

"Autor."  
"Hm?"  
"Stop scrunching up your face like that."  
"I'm just…thinking."  
"…You don't have to think that hard, you know. It's just a way to jumpstart a conversation. If you think too hard about it, the purpose is sort of lost."  
"…Oh."

* * *

A/N: I had a bad case of writer's block on this day, as you've probably guessed. I actually had an idea for this theme, but it just didn't happen, so I gave up and...the result was this little ramble you see before you. It was actually a lot of fun to write. 


	14. Fic 14: Let Me Tell You A Story

**Title:** Let Me Tell You A Story  
** Day/Theme:** April 18: Spring song  
** Series:** Princess Tutu  
** Character/Pairing:** Uhrmacher(OC)/Johanna(OC)  
** Rating:** G

She was playing the piano when he walked into the room. Head bowed and eyes closed, her fingers danced across the keys, playing a gentle, breezy melody. Uhrmacher paused a moment, watching her play, before clearing his throat. She jumped, surprised by the sudden intrusion into her world.  
"Uhrmacher! I…is it time already?"  
He pulled out a pocket watch and opened it. "Six o'clock in the evening. That's the correct time, isn't it?"  
In response, a grandfather clock somewhere in the house began to chime.  
"Now it is," Johanna said. "Your watch is fast."  
"I'm the son of a watchmaker, and you think my watch is fast? No, Johanna, your clock is slow."

She rolled her eyes. She liked Uhrmacher, but his strict punctuality had a tendency to feel very confining. To him, there was a difference between six o'clock, and one past six, and it seemed like every time she gave him a time to meet her, he'd confirm that she meant "six, and not a minute past, correct?"  
She stood, ready to tell him that it wouldn't hurt him to wait a few minutes more, but he spoke before she could. "That was a beautiful song you were playing."  
"Oh…thank you."  
"What was it about?"  
She frowned. "What makes you think it was about anything?"  
"Just a guess," he responded with a shrug, putting his hands in his pocket.  
"…A tree. It suddenly grows one day in the spring time, and anyone that can climb to the top of the highest branches of the tree will be allowed to ask one question of the oracle that lives there."  
"That sounds like an interesting story…I'd like to hear it sometime."  
Johanna smiled, sitting back down onto the piano bench and patting the empty spot next to her. "Sit down and listen. I'll tell it to you."

* * *

A/N: I still had the writer's block when I wrote this...originally, this was going to be much longer. Oh well, it's still a cute piece (...even if poor Autor isn't anywhere in it). 


	15. Fic 15: Romeo and Juliet

**Title: **Romeo and Juliet**  
Day/Theme: **April 19: By the window**  
Series: **Princess Tutu**  
Character/Pairing: **Uhrmacher (OC)/Johanna (OC)**  
Rating: **G

"Uhrmacher."

"Yes, Johanna?"

"Why are you throwing rocks at my window?"

"Pebbles, actually. I wouldn't throw a rock at your window; my intent wasn't to break it."

"And your intent _was…_?"

"To get your attention so we could talk."

"About?"

"Anything. Everything!"

"…You didn't plan what to do once I opened the window, I'm assuming."

"Well…I was hoping the right words would come to me…"

"Ha, ha, ha! Uhrmacher…you're impossible!"

"W-well, it worked in books, so…"

"I'm not Rapunzel! I'm not going to just throw my hair out the window and drag you up to my room if you call my name a little!"

"I was thinking of something closer to Romeo and Juliet."

"Uhrmacher, Uhrmacher, wherefore art thou Uhrmacher?"

"My father wanted me to take over the family business."

"What?"

"Why I'm Uhrmacher. My father named me that because he wanted me to be a watchmaker."

"…I see. Is that what you want?"

"Well…it's a living."

"You don't know?"

"Not really. I don't really know what I want for the future. Well…I know one thing, that is…"

"Oh? What's that?"

"I'd…like you to be a part of it."

"…Uhrmacher."

"Y-yes?"

"…That really _is _what you're trying to say, then? You're not just fooling around?"

"Wh-what made you think I was fooling around??"

"I thought you were just trying to get my attention."

"W-well I am!"

"To say what?"

"Well…um."

"…Yes?"

"…I love you?"

"Are you asking if you _do_ love me…?"

"N-no! I mean it! I love you!"

"Uhrmacher, you're…silly."

"I'm…I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"You didn't let me give a response."

"Um. Yes, then?"

"I do, too."

"…What?"

"I love you."

"…Johanna…"

"Would you like to go have a picnic at the river?"

"…Yes. Very much."

"Then I'll come down. We can buy some food on the way?"

"S-sounds like a plan."

"All right. Wait there. Oh, and Uhrmacher?"

"Yes?"

"Tilting your head that way is cute, but I'd let your head move a little now. You'll get a crick in your neck."

* * *

A/N: This one is dedicated to Mouself--she wanted me to try to write an all-dialogue fic, and this is the result! 


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